Return to Manhattan
by Black Rose25
Summary: Rating for later chapters There is hope for the Brownies! Based off of March Hare's BST xXChapter 2 Up!Xx
1. Sent Back

I woke up that morning in a strange bed, fully clothed, with a red rose clutched in my fingers. It did not take long for me to realize the event that had led to my awakening: Sherlock Holmes, greatest detective in history, was standing above my bed; and at that moment, I was the happiest woman in history, for he was smiling. "I decided inot/i to wait for you to arrive at Baker Street, so I came here to wait for you to wake up," he stated simply. The sun streaming through the opened window told me that it must be late morning: nine-ish at least, and the wind brought in the sounds of London: horseshoes on cobblestone streets, street vendors hawking their wares, and that faint, almost imperceptable hiss; the sound of air flowing through millions of mouths, of the wind whispering through millions of trees, and the sound of millions of voices. However, at that moment, there was only one voice I cared to hear: the voice of the man standing before me, looking like the devil's own cousin, and oh, how I loved him.  
  
From first glance, it was obvious he had not slept a wink that night. I doubted I would have either, had. . . ahem. . . certain circumstances not intervened on my behalf. His clothes were wrinkled from not being pressed, and his bloodshot eyes had dark circles under them. I doubted he had slept the night I had spent in the warehouse, either, having found me missing the moment he returned from Watson's.  
  
That thought line lead to another: What was his purpose for that fateful late-night sojourn? I thought over it for a moment, then decided not to put voice to my question; it undoubtedly had something to do with his somewhat unexpected, though not unhoped for, proposing the night before. I would leave that be until such time as he decided I needed to know.  
  
It was at that point that I remembered the rose in my hand. The stem was still wet from a vase of water somewhere, and someone had gone through the trouble to remove all the thorns, and all the leaves excepting the two bunches closest to the bloom. I had little doubt where it had come from, having seen Holmes hastily set down a small glass vase filled with water and eleven akin to my rose when I unexpectedly woke up. The simple thought of him walking in to a flower parlor brought a smile to my face, and it widened to a grin when I idea of what Watson and Mary had thought when he had knocked on their door encumbered so. Delicately bringing it up to my face, I inhaled the sweet fragrance that had made it a symbol of love for as long as the word had existed.  
  
Suddenly and without any warning, Holmes' face broke out in to a wide grin, such as I rarely saw, and never when he wasn't on a case.  
  
"What are you smiling at?" I asked him, suspicions of what he could find so entertaining.  
  
"I was just remembering how I first met you, and somewhat hoping it had been a little less... unorthodox, so we might be able to reminisce on it enjoyably." I blushed as I remembered that night when I had first come to London, and Holmes had barged in to the bathroom where I was then taking a bath, forgetting to knock, of course. I tried furiously to hold down the blush rising in my face, but to no avail. I finally settled on just hoping it would go away soon.  
  
I do not know how long we stood like that, he with that sort-of smile that could capture my heart and hold it for all the ages; and I gazing in to his gray eyes that could hold all eternity in them, but I wished it would last forever.  
  
Much to my dismay, however, after what seemed like less than a second, Mary passed by the open door and told us that breakfast was ready.  
  
I reluctantly broke eye contact with Holmes, and slid off the bed. A quick glance at the mirror in a corner showed that the state of my person was atrocious: my dress was wrinkled from being wet and then slept in, my hair was unkempt, looking much more like a birds nest than I was prepared to admit, there was a large bruise across my face from where Edwards' man had backhanded me, and my eyes had dark circles under them from the stress of last night. Then, to my surprise, Holmes looked at me, slid his hand in to mine, and declared for all the world to hear, "You're beautiful." Then, oh wonder of wonders, he pulled me to him and stopped my heart and my mouth with a kiss.  
  
That, too, was unfortunately short-lived. Unexpectedly, Holmes pulled back, and held me at arms' length before reaching to his jacket pocket. He took something out, and carefully placed it in my hand.  
  
"I do not know how Edwards got hold of this," he said, "But I imagine you would like it back." I opened my hand, and there was the necklace he had given me for my birthday last year, none the worse for the wear.  
  
I was so overjoyed to see it that I was afraid my heart might burst when Holmes again took it from my grasp and tied it around my neck. For a moment I suspected that this little diversion was just another excuse to get his arms around me, but in this case, I decided he had a just cause. He was in love, and so was victim of many of the classic blunders, but I was not one to judge, as I was no less guilty at for the accused crimes. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I moved closer for another kiss.  
  
Right on time, Mary walked in and informed us that our breakfast was getting cold. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that I had not eaten for nearly two days, so with some kind of giddy regret, I followed Holmes downstairs.  
  
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When I got downstairs, I found a surprise waiting for me, and instantly decided that, aside from Holmes, it was the greatest sight I had ever seen. A mound of pancakes deeper than the fork, scrambled eggs, blueberry muffins, maple syrup, and bacon were laid out on the table. I instantly turned and hugged Mary, who had obviously gone through such trouble. She insisted that the greatest thanks she could have was my eating, and assuring her that I was not about to pass out again, so I sat down and heaped my plate with scrambled eggs. Much to my joy, Holmes sat down next to me and seized my hand with his. Although I will admit that it was a bit difficult for a person so right-handed that she could barely type with her left to go through breakfast with her right hand clasped tightly under the table, I would not have let go for anything in the world.  
  
Breakfast passed with companionable silence, with many small things cumulating to make it one of the happiest meals I had ever encountered; passing Holmes the sugar bowl, remembering the way he had gotten back at Mycroft for his stunt in the catacombs, and he in turn pouring me coffee, the greatest drink in the world. Of course, Holmes insisted he would never get used to some of my queer tastes, as he stated while I liberally poured maple syrup on to my scrambled eggs and dipped my bacon in the tea. My dad had always done the same thing, and as he poured syrup on the eggs while cooking them, we had better learn to like it or we wouldn't eat. I was always hungry, so I got to like syruped eggs quite a bit.  
  
Our happiness was, like many other good things that morning, short-lived.  
  
We had barely set down our forks when Símone, the Watson's housekeeper, came in to announce in a strong French accent that there was a man here to see a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. She was obviously confused as to why the man was calling here, but I suspected that Mrs. Hudson had told him where we were. Damn. *Any client who would call at 10:00 in the morning on a Sunday must have something urgent,* I thought. "Send him in," I said to the maid. She cleared away the breakfast dishes, and I looked ruefully at the coffee pot as it disappeared through the swinging door.  
  
When Símone returned, she was accompanied by the client, who announced himself as one David Woodworth of Boston.  
  
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The case that this Woodworth presented us with, who was also a premiere member of high society, as well as the owner of a prominent shipyard, was fairly straight forward: a suspicious letter, a missing Tibetan artifact, followed closely by a disappearance of the one of his brothers and his business partner, a Mr. Donald Mitchel.  
  
The case was so commonplace that, at first, I didn't think Holmes would take it. However, after asking a few standard questions, Holmes agreed to take it on. Damn again. Now we would have to leave our secluded sanctuary that was the parlor. *Oh well,* I thought. It was what made Holmes happy, and for that I loved detective work, no matter what pleasant business it interrupted.  
  
While I was lost in this train of thought, Holmes had gotten up and reclaimed his hat from the rack by the door. Looking over at me with another one of those much-loved, heart-stopping, love-of-my-life-that-he- was smiles, he stated that we would be stopping at Baker Street to get our disguises, then off to the local tavern to investigate this artifact of ours.  
  
It took me a few seconds to comprehend what he had just said, for, loath though I was to admit, I really wasn't listing to a word. I was staring at the cute way his nose wrinkled when he said the letter "b." Bad Nona. Bad. After repeating my mental tape-recorder a few times, I remembered where I had stored Bernie Flynn; under the loose floorboard under my bed. That was also where I had my violin. I agreed to go undercover with Holmes (AN: To all Sherlock fangirls, I meant the pun there, but it's the Victorian age: not until they're married, lol) to assist with the investigation, even though I knew perfectly well he did not need my help.  
  
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Well, I was right about the case being commonplace. After a very reasonable train of his brilliant analytical reasoning he was so famous for, the artifact was located, the letter explained, and the traitorous brother and cheating business partner arrested. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was seeing Holmes' face after he had locked his handcuffs on Mitchel; the look of triumph, of accomplishing what nobody else could have. That, I knew, was what had made me fall in love with him: that determination, that resolve, that sheer passion that he had in everything he did.  
  
But I'm getting off the subject at hand.  
  
The important thing to remember is that Bernie Flynn and Holmes' latest persona were walking down one of the sidewalks in the nicer part of London, and receiving very dirty looks from the members of high society who happened to be passing along the same way. Not that I blame them: here we have some random Irish fiddler with unwashed and uncared-for clothes and a short man, maybe in his early 60's with an enormous handlebar moustache, walking down the street and peering in to the windows of a fine jewelry store like they contemplated buying something! The audacity!  
  
In actuality, on our way home Holmes had breached the subject of a ring, and we were deciding whether we should get a diamond, as done in my time, or a plain gold band as, among those of our income at least, was common in his time. He seemed to want to give me a wedding more like the one I might have had were I to have stayed in my own time, plus all but insisting on getting me a diamond.  
  
We finally saw something that might just fit the purpose: It was really just a plain gold band, but it had a really tiny diagonal of princess-cut diamonds set in to the metal; just enough to give it a little sparkle, nothing too flashy. We decided to go home to change in to clothes more appropriate to jewelry-shopping, and return to the store after dinner. We were on the case at lunch and tea times, so those meals had been neglected.  
  
On the subject of meals, I had found that my appetite had disappeared after breakfast that morning. This was rather annoying; not because I wanted to eat, but because foremost in Holmes' mind seemed to be to get food in to me to assure him that I would not pass out again in the near future. Much to my dismay, he had already been informed of my little display the previous night before I could warn Mary not to tell him. I had no doubt that he had meant to urge more breakfast on me that morning, but as I was doing the Victorian-day equivalent of shoveling scrambled eggs in to my mouth at top speed, I doubt his urging could have made me eat faster. Now, however, his constant badgering was beginning to be somewhat annoying.  
  
"Honestly, Nona, you haven't eaten more than a single breakfast in the past forty-eight hours, and that wasn't even what constitutes a meal - *HA! I thought.* - Won't you just come back to Baker Street with me, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has laid out a splendid supper - Or perhaps a restaurant I know of, it's just a few blocks from here, and they make the most spectacular pasta..." And he continued on like that. Not that I minded, of course. It was surely an improvement to the mornings where he would do no more than grunt to acknowledge my presence and push the coffee pot in my general direction, his eyes never leaving the morning Times.  
  
I sighed remorsefully, remembering all that lost time from in between the night at the opera and now. Bad move. Holmes, being the now concerned over my health to the point of smothering, instantly wrapped his arm around my waist to reassure himself that I would not collapse. Another action I felt no objection to... This day was getting better and better.  
  
Finally consenting to his rather persistent requests, I agreed to go to the restaurant he had suggested, then return to the jewelry store for my ring. Also, at my suggestion, he agreed to go to the concert hall with me after getting my ring. I thought that he could use a little music after the unpleasantness of the past few days; besides, this was probably the closest I would ever get to a full-fledged, 21st century, dinner-and-a-movie date. Of course, all of this required us going back to Baker Street to change, as I did not think it would make a favorable impression on the waiters if I were to show up in my present state, so we called a hansom cab and started there.  
  
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When we got back to Baker Street, Holmes regretfully let go of my hand (which he had not let go of since we finished the case) and walked upstairs to change. I briefly considered following him, but Mrs. Hudson's reprimand after the last time I tried something like that was still fresh in my mind, so I thought the better of it.  
  
Turning the corner in to my room, I found a note sitting on my bed:  
  
Dearest Nona-Bird,  
  
Congratulations. I always knew you and Holmes would get together. I have gone out to the market. If you are reading this, you have come back to get your clothes for your stay at Mr. Watson's. I took the liberty of sending some of your things you might need ahead - thought it might be easier. I left it up to you to pick your clothes, though. I'll be back late, so you can go ahead to Watson's after you've packed; don't bother waiting for me.  
  
Love always,  
  
Mrs. Hudson  
  
Well, that explained where my brush had gone. I noticed it was missing when I walked in to the room. But, back to the matter at hand: dressing for dinner. I looked to my closet to decide what to wear tonight; these ruddy Victorians had all these big things over etiquette, you know, what kind of things to wear where, how expensive the jewelry was, etc. *Oh dear!* I thought, *Now I'm beginning to THINK like him!* Before that little rant just now, I had never said "Ruddy" in my life.  
  
I fingered the fringe on one dark green dress, but I felt something softer behind it. I pushed the green dress aside, I saw the red crushed velvet opera dress Holmes had gotten me. It seemed that my thoughts just kept going back to that night... I stroked an arm lovingly, but it was far too nice to wear tonight. I settled on the dark green; besides, the black trim would make it look good with my necklace Holmes had returned to my care that morning, which I was determined to never leave the house without again, unless it was absolutely necessary.  
  
After bending my will against that of the corset, I managed to get in to the green dress without the help of Mrs. Hudson. Now came the hard part: I was required to drag a comb through that congealed mat that had become my hair. No easy task, as it now fell well past the middle of my back. I don't know how I ever managed it. I am certain that I broke two of my combs, at the very least. But it did achieve the desired effect: my hair was now in perfect Victorian style on my head, or as close as I would ever get without Mrs. Hudson. I saw something move in my mirror and turned around, only to find Holmes staring at me like he had never seen me before.  
  
"How long have you been there?" I said, or tried to. Before I got the third word out, he had crossed the room in two steps and taken me in his arms.  
  
"I must be blind," he whispered in to my hair, "for going so long, with you living not fifteen feet from me, and never seeing how beautiful you are."  
  
Well, that was it. My heart having melted long ago, I was content to gaze in to his gray eyes again, swimming in them like they were the ocean. For those few seconds, Holmes' eyes were the entire world, and that world was on fire. The few but memorable times I had been able to look in to those great windows in to the soul that we now called eyes unchecked by Holmes himself, I had spied something like a spark, bright and burning, something I couldn't identify. Now I knew what it was: Love. And it was no longer a spark; there was a full-fledged fire burning in Holmes' eyes. And I knew without a doubt that the same flame was mirrored in my own eyes.  
  
Not being able to resist myself, I pulled myself in to Holmes' embrace, reveling in the joy of being able to do that. It really was true what they said, that Absence makes the Heart grow Fonder. I leaned in closer to his ear, and whispered for only him to hear:  
  
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I will spend the rest of my life with you."  
  
For some reason, this made Holmes held me at arms length for the second time today, but now he had an odd expression on his face: somewhere between anxious and concerned, with a little bit of excited mixed in. I had no idea what would make him look like this, but my question was soon answered.  
  
"Nona," He asked, looking genuinely worried. "Where is Mrs. Hudson?"  
  
I laughed out loud at this. Obviously, her stern reprimanding had made just as much of an impression on him as it had on me.  
  
"Don't worry, Holmes. She has gone to the market, and won't be back 'till late." My eyes glanced over at the note on my bed. He made a noise that I guessed meant he understood, and drew me back in to his embrace. But in this brief lapse of my I'm-so-madly-in-love-I-can-no-longer-think-straight mindset brought me crashing back to reality. I knew that, much as I wanted to, we could not simply stand here for the rest of eternity with our arms around each other. Regretfully, I stepped back from Holmes and said to him  
  
"Come on now, we should get going, or we'll miss our reservation!" I said, wagging my finger at him in a mock-stern fashion. He had apparently followed my train of thought, for he then sighed, took my hand in his, and led me downstairs to call a cab.  
  
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Dinner was spectacular, the concert was superb, and Sherlock Holmes was walking me back to Watson's. My life couldn't get any better. We had also just stopped by to get my ring. I still can't believe that Holmes insisted on getting me a diamond, the plain band would have been so much cheaper... Plus, this may be the one time his logic was faulty; he had explained to me that if we got the gold band, we would just have to get it redone when I decided I wanted a diamond (which he was firmly convinced that I one day would,) and that the cost of getting it redone would more than make up the difference between the ring with and without diamonds. Of course, that's what he *said.* What he meant was that he wanted to spoil me rotten, and didn't care how much money it took to do that. But he would never say that.  
  
We were just walking out of the jewelry store when a gunshot rang out from the inside of the store. I heard a shout, a crash of breaking glass, and suddenly, I was being pushed aside by a man who looked suspiciously like Edwards carrying a large rope of pearls. I was pushed a second time in to a stand of trash bins on one side of an alley; they all cascaded down, only a quick jump on my part being squashed by a barrel of garbage.  
  
When I got up, I found my way back was barred by trash bags... Bags? I took a closer look at them, and saw that they were plastic... What were Glad bags doing in Victorian London? Unfortunately, that thought was driven out of my mind when I saw that, except for a taxi or two, the street in front of me was empty. Taxi... It took a moment for my mind to comprehend the terrible position I had found myself in. The road that just a few seconds ago had been filled with spectators to a jewelry heist was empty, there were taxis in the road, and most importantly, it was all illuminated by the unmistakable light of electric street lamps. I collapsed on to my knees, wailing, as my position slowly dawned on me: I had been sent back to Manhattan.  
  
Oh, and check this out: I found it at Sherlockian.net. I like it!  
  
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	2. Authors notes and Disclaimer

Authors note: Ok, now I have two disclaimers! First: Doyle is God. Holmes is his. I'm just screwing with his mind... *Evil Grin* AND....... March Hare is also God. They are Both Gods. Ok, whatever.  
  
Now, on to me! Hey, all you Brownies out there! Even though I have looked for them, I really cant find many BST fanfics... I know they exist because I hear people refer to them... But I cant find them. So I wrote my own. I have March Hare's permission, as well as the benefit of a willing BETA, and in the exact words of March Hare: That's it. I'm dead. You killed me with your perfect romantic goodness!! I feel so loved!! And I have had this story in my head ever science I read BST... I broke my own record on that story. I went 54 hours without sleep. By the end of it, I was telling the magic green Leprechauns that I would cook their monkeymeat as soon as I had finished my deep-sea diving trip with the Emus... It was like I was drunk, only cheaper. How did I get on this subject? I know! The Leprechauns will tell me! Anyway, review my story, and I will be eternally grateful! Plus, if you SLACKERS read this story and don't review, I will send you severed turtle heads in bed! *I just couldn't hurt a horse, lol!* See you on the other side! 


	3. Dreams

AN: Ok, you really have to be in just the right mood to read this chapter. It's so depressing! Sad, too. But I might sudgest music, like Dave Matthew's "Gravedigger." I was watching that music video on MTV when I wrote a good chunk of this. That song so totally Rocks! Anyway, getting off subject. So... Whaaaaa! I only got four reviews!!! Speaking of which, until I get more than 15 reviews a chapter *'Cause that would just be insane* I'm going to give personalized responses to my reviews. So...  
  
Estriel: Yeah, how do you like this? And thank you for reviewing; I feel so loved! =P  
  
Lady Riahanna Dragoneye: I'm sorry if you thought it was insensitive, but I was only joking. Ya know, that part in the Godfather with the horses... Yeah. Anyway, who wrote the other Nona Brown fic? I'd like to read it! Oh, and thanx for reviewing.  
  
Imp: *Black Rose stares at Imp in disbelief* Oh, man, are you missing out! Go! Read! Be free! It rocks, I promise!  
  
Alexia S. Luclwit: Yay, my first review! You will now go down in history! And I know, I'm cruel. This next chapter is even more cruel...*Evil Grin* And torturous. So, yes, it will continue for the sake of Sherley Torture fans. But not for more than two or three chapters... I don't know any Nona torture fans.  
  
Thank you for listening to my authorial ramblings, now, on to the fic!!  
  
*P.S. Oh, and keeping with the Doylean style, the Holmes-inclusive parts will be written from Watson's POV. Thanx again!  
  
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^Bring-Bring...Bring-Bring  
  
I woke up, glared at the illuminated bedside clock reading 3:12 AM, and got out of bed reluctantly to answer the phone.  
  
Who could be calling at this time of night?? I thought, and picked up the receiver.  
  
"Hello?" I croaked in a voice that spoke quite plainly of a hangover. No more vodka night for me! I thought.  
  
"Is this a Miss Nona Brown?" asked a male voice with a slight Brooklyn accent. I could hear the sound of many voices working in the background.  
  
"This is she...May I ask who is speaking?" Curse my mother, I thought, for drilling phone manners in to my head often...  
  
"This is Detective Davis with the NYPD. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, ma'am," said the man, "But we have a man here asking for you." My thoughts immediately flew to my half-brother, Mitchell, who was always getting himself in to one mess or another, and calling me to bail him out. *AN: I do not know if Nona had a half-brother, but I needed a very close family member to have that kind of history, and a half-brother seemed appropriate*  
  
"Can you describe him to me?" I asked. Better be sure who it is before I come down there with bail money...  
  
"All right, sure. He's around 6'2, *To the Sherlockian Purists, I am not sure about the height, but I do know that he can take a foot off of his stature at any time... I love the Empty House!* with black hair and gray eyes. He's dressed kinda funny, too, like he was at a costume party. At the time he was taken into custody, he was wearing a dark trenchcoat, with a deerstalke-" The Inspector stopped, alarmed, at the sound of the receiver hitting the floor, feet thumping loudly next to the phone, and a door slamming.  
  
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The instant that the inspector described the man at the station, I knew. I don't see why it did not occur to me sooner; if I could get in to the past, why not, then, could someone get from the past into the future? Maybe even Holm-... My mind refused to think that far ahead. It was like a battle between the two sides of my personality; the logical side, skeptical as always . . . Forever making sure that I never got my hopes up so that they would never get disappointed- even now, when there is a chance, the tiniest of chances, that he might be here, that I might see him again . . . That was the optimistic end of my mind, the part that believed in that tiny, almost invisible ray of hope that said that I might see the man I loved again...  
  
So fast does the marvelous human brain work that I believe, to this day, that I had thought this out before the phone had hit the ground. All I remember was the realization that Sherlock Holmes, whom I loved more than life itself, was within a ten-minute run from here. After that, all I did was run out of the room in to the chill November air.  
  
I knew I wasn't allowed to run in the halls of my apartment building, but at that point I was beyond caring. I ran, tumbling through the halls, oblivious to the heads popping out of the doors to the right and left to see what in the world could be disturbing their sleep at this time of night. I ran, to be that much closer to the one I had been separated from across aeons of time. My heart and I flew pounding down the stairs, for how could I have waited for an elevator, and burst out in to the night.  
  
I have no idea what passerbyes must have thought. Here was a woman whom looked not a day over 23, wearing crop yoga pants and a camo spaghetti- strapped sleep top, with tears streaming down her face, who was sprinting through the middle of NYC, in the November snow, slush, and mud no less! And, to top it all off, barefoot! Even with the cold, the rain, and weaving through the crowded streets, the only thing I could think of was the beating of my heart, in sync with the pounding of my feet as I lessened the distance between Holmes and myself, step by step. That night, I flew like one possessed. I flew through Manhattan, past the many familiar places that now had new significance since my return to now; the Coffee on the Hill, where I had sat just that morning and drank that lifeblood of my life that is Chai.  
  
Only a few steps later was the little deli where I stopped at least once a week for lunch... But the sight of the local department of the NYPD drove all that out of my mind. Just the knowledge of who was standing just a few feet past those glass doors was enough to make me weak in the knees. As if in a dream, I reached my hand out for the door-  
  
BEEBEEP-BEEBEP...BEBEEP-BEBEEP...  
  
My eyes flew open as I realized where I was: in my dorm room, right where I had fallen asleep. It had been a dream. Holmes was still over 100 years away... That last thought was still the hardest one to cope with. The dream was coming around three times a week, and it showed no sign of letting up. My eyes filling with tears, I pulled something on a chain out of my camo top. From an objective eye, it looked like a ring, with a small line of diamonds grazing across it, but to me, it was my only lifeline to a world I had once known, a world where I had been loved, where I had been at home, a world that had been torn from me just when I had made it fit. Glancing over at my sidetable, I saw that my alarm clock read 6:30.  
  
Oh, great. I had forgotten to turn off my alarm last night, even thought it is a weekend, and I should be sleeping in. Damn. Not only would I never get to sleep now, but I would have dark circles under my eyes tomorrow. Or today, as it were. With a deep sigh of regret, I wiped the tears from my eyes and went to go get some coffee from the common room.  
  
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Opon arriving downstairs, I found my roommate, David, watching the TV. I still remember the controversy that we had when the school found out that there was a co-ed roommate pair. What had happened was, when he arrived here, the term had already started, and the boy's dorms were full, so the computer-that-is-god put him in the girls dorms, more specifically, in my room. After replenishing the supply of caffeine in my bloodstream, I walked over to the couch, sat next to David, and pulled one of the ever-present fleece around my shoulders.  
  
Given time to reminisce, my thoughts went, as always, to those first few weeks after I had been sent back here. Those first few weeks were filled with anarchy. My parents, the police, my friends and family... All of them wanted to know where I had gone, what I had been doing there, why I never called, etc. All I wanted to do was crawl in to a hole. Of course, foremost on their list of questions was to the identity of my fiancé. I had told them the first thing that flew in to my mind, because I obviously couldn't tell them the truth. At the time of that particular examination, we had been in the kitchen, and I had glanced over at the paper sitting on the kitchen table; the headlines spoke of prisoners of war being returned from Iraq. I had already been informed about all the terrible catastrophes that had come to pass while I was gone, but though it still seemed like Bush just screwing things up for the fun of it, I could use it to my advantage. The story I had told my parents went as follows: In the middle of a life crisis, I had gone to London. and once there fell in love with a detective. Only a few days after our engagement, he was drafted in to the service *Yeah, I know that they did not instate a draft in England; Fanfic land, people. Just pretend* and flew off to Iraq. The next thing I heard of him, he had been declared missing in action and presumed dead, so I came back here. I had told nobody but David the truth, and I still don't know why he believed me. I almost jumped off the couch when David wrapped his arm around me in the comforting way of a sympathetic friend.  
  
We sat there for a few minutes in silence, then he spoke without his eyes leaving the Gilligan's Island reruns on the TV.  
  
"You had one of those dreams again?" He said.  
  
"Yup." I responded. also not looking at him. I just couldn't bring myself to. It was like I had double vision; I was seeing one thing, but the entire time, I had my memories laid over it. In real life, I may have been sitting on a college dorm, watching a fifty-year-old TV show, but in my mind, It was a new year's night, over 100 years ago, sitting in a window seat and wishing with all my heart I was here. The irony was that now, I would give all I had to go back to that New Year's Eve, to that window seat. I was dragged out of my remorseful musings by the voice of my friend next to me.  
  
"Nona, you have to stop doing this. You can't get back. I know it's hard, but you have to admit it to yourself: you will never see him again." In the cold, hard, depths of my soul I knew he was right. It was coming on one year that I had been returned to Manhattan, and still the hole in my heart was fresh. I just couldn't bring myself to let go, to speak it out loud... Because if I said it, then it would be true. Which is why the words "I will never see Holmes again" did not escape my lips. Admit it to myself that I might, I still would not admit it to the world. I sighed, and slowly drifted out of consciousness with the comforting weight of David's arm around my shoulder, images of Holmes floating through my head.  
  
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~*Watson*~  
  
One year. It had been one year, almost to the day, that my friend and roommate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, had killed himself.  
  
Please do not jump to conclusions; he did not commit suicide of the body. No, he chose a much more painful and lingering solution: he killed his mind, his only asset in life. He stopped everything; refusing to leave his room, refusing to take cases, would barely eat, drink, sleep...  
  
You may ask me what could possibly make my friend, who is renown for such moral character, turn to such a self-destructive route; what could make, indeed, any man turn his back on all that he was? The answer to that riddle is the same as what made a man all he was: Love.  
  
He had trusted his heart, for the one time in his life, and had been wounded more deeply than any before him, or even any after him would ever be. But of course, you already know that sad, and even unbelievable story; that of Nona Brown, time traveler extraordinaire, and the only person to ever break through that steel wall surrounding the heart of my comrade. Only to be sent back to whence she came, from the future. Now that I see those words in print, I barely believe that strange story myself, though it was myself that had found her, wearing such outlandish clothes, two years ago, gazing around London like one in a dream. And, indeed, it seemed as such when I remembered it now... But I have spent far too much time on reminiscing. Now, let me turn to that dreary November day on which my story, this chapter, at least, really begins.  
  
I remember the morning well. For not the first time in the past months, I had woken up to find the breakfast set for two, but little hope that both chairs would be occupied. I suppose that Mrs. Hudson and I did not really believe he would ever come out of his room; he had managed to stay barricaded in it for days beyond measure, and showed no intention of coming out any time soon. Finally, after watching Mrs. Hudson carry away the unused plates for what seemed the hundredth time, I decided it was just too much.  
  
Stalking up to Holmes' apartment like a man possessed, I hammered on his door with my fist.  
  
"Holmes?" I bellowed, "You must open this door this minute. If you do not, I shall be compelled to break it dow-" I was cut short by, much to my surprise, the door obeying my request. I stopped my shouting at the shock of the sight before me. A man barely recognizable as my friend of many years stood before me, unshaved, unclean, wearing clothes that bore the marks of many a night's sleep, and his eyes... His eyes just stopped me at the sight. Deep, dark, forlorn pits of despair, with no sign of their former life and vigor, and surrounded by the dark shadows of a man who had nothing left to live for.  
  
That sight, of Holmes standing there in his doorway, undoubtfuly only half sane, sobered me in a way that nothing else could have. I draped my arm around my friend's shoulder, partially to lead him, and partially to assure myself he would not pass out at that very second, and guided him to sit on his bed.  
  
All in one glance, I took in the state of his room. Holmes had never prided himself on cleanliness, and indeed had been the laziest man I had ever met as regards to housekeeping, but this really threw it in to balance. Compared to it now, his room had been a haven of organization.  
  
As a medical man, I was forced to look at my friend with a more cynical eye, and was not surprised at what I found: Holmes bore every sign of illness, those of both body and mind. I had seen these symptoms many times before in my regiment days. He was obviously in a miserable state of depression; his stature, the expression on his face. . . It told me all I needed to know. My only chance now was to appeal to that cold, cynical reason he used to prize above all things.  
  
"Holmes, you have to let go of her. Nona is gone, and, though I loathe to admit it even to myself, the odds are a million to one she will ever come back." After a long pause, when Holmes finally responded, the change in his voice was as startling as that in his appearance; that which was once so light and, while never cheery, had changed to the gravely murmur to one who has not spoken but to himself for many days.  
  
"I know, Watson. But my heart is forcing me to hang on to that one- millionth of a chance that she is still out there; that she will find her way back to me. I know in the very pit of my soul that she is trying, and I hope for all I believe in that she is not suffering as I am, but there is still that chance, small though it is, that she will come back."  
  
The agony in my friend's voice was heart-wrenching. The pain in his eyes when I spoke Nona's name was worse. But by far the final blow was that I knew what he was feeling. I had been going through the same thing since the day she had left; the miserable feeling as if my body was being eaten away by an infectious parasite, but the look in his eyes changed that. Now, that gentle gnawing had morphed into pain, blatant and simple.  
  
And seeing him, knowing that his pain was worse, that was the last straw.  
  
Then, there was the finality. The fact that I *knew,* without a shadow of a doubt, that there was no logical way for her to come back. And there was nothing I could do about it. Just that, being powerless, not having control over where my life was headed; that was almost as bad as the pain. After all, I had loved her too. The voice of my friend sitting beside me startled me out of my stony reverie.  
  
"I dreamed about again her last night. I've told you about the dreams, haven't I?" He had, in fact, not told me about any such thing, and when I told him so, he began to relate the particulars to me.  
  
"It always is the same, Watson. I am leaving the house, for what reason I know not, when I see something in an alley to one side. Seized by my natural curiosity, I walk over to investigate. However, when I reach it, I realize what it is: Nona's necklace, the one I gave her, and the one she was wearing the day she was sent back. I place it in my trench coat pocket and turn around to continue on my way, only to find that the world behind me is not at all as I had left it. There is an orange light coming from incredibly tall lampposts, aimed downward. The street is blanketed with strange carriages, but there is not a horse in sight. Possibly the most incredible of all, there are more people making their way through a thick, grayish slush on the streets than I think I have ever seen out at that time of night, for indeed night it has become, though it was not an hour past tea when I entered the alley.  
  
"Stumbling out in to the light, I observe further: All the people, save a very few, are dressed in the most outrageous clothes, yet they seem oddly familiar. Suddenly, I realize where I must be: I am in the future, Nona's future, where she went when she was sent back. That I have no doubt of, that she was sent back. Now, my only thought was to find my way to her, but the instant I stepped to cross the street, I was almost run over by a carriage moving at an ungodly speed. Stumbling back, I was addressed by two men in blue uniforms. When I inquired as to the year, they pulled out small devices out of their belts and spoke in to them. It is a wonderful future we are destined to, Watson, for voices came out of them, like a telephone with out wires. They informed me that I should come with them, and I saw no reason not to comply, so I did as they asked. They then took me to what was unmistakable, even in the future, as a police station. I was placed in a seat in a corner and questioned as to where I was going. Knowing only one thing in this strange time I was in, I said that I was meeting a friend of mine, a Miss Nona Brown. After giving me the most uncomfortable looks pertaining my accent, they took out what I did recognize as a telephone and a book of an obscene size. After paging through it briefly, they spoke a few words into the telephone and then replaced the receiver. I then sat idly for a few minutes, until I sensed a disturbance by the door. There was Nona, her arm reaching out to grab the handle on the glass door, and there is where my dream ends."  
  
I was in shock. I, too, dreamed about Nona, but not in such detail or complexity. Truly understanding the depth of Holmes' wound for the first time, I offered the only condolences I could; a pat on the back and a warm word of friendship. And then, there was the fact that Nona was having the very same dreams, though we would not find out until later.  
  
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End file.
